


Freak

by CheshireMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireMoon/pseuds/CheshireMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you stop being such a freak and just act normal for once?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freak

The heel of Johns palm was dug so far into his own eye socket out of sheer irritation that he was seeing stars.  All across the floor was shattered glass, preservative, and what looked to be the remainder of a brain.  The entire kitchen smelled absolutely awful, and Sherlock was simply standing there, blinking rapidly as he stared down at the mess, hands held aloft and empty.

"Well," Sherlock said after several tense moments of silence.  "That wasn’t very graceful of you, was it John?"  He looked up at last to find John red-faced and blustering.

"Me? Not Graceful?"  John muttered darkly, to the bewilderment of Sherlock.

"Well, yes, you did barrel right into me," Sherlock continued, oblivious of the storm cloud swirling it’s way around John’s head.

"There’s brain and… and preservative and glass all across our bloody kitchen floor and all you can say is that I’m not  _graceful?”_ John asked, letting his hands drop to his sides, balling into fists.  Sherlock’s brows rose and he opened his mouth to answer but was swiftly cut off.

"Always with the brains or the ears or the fingers!  Can you stop being such a  _freak_  and just act  _normal_ for once?”  Sherlock’s expression froze and John’s stomach dropped at the realisation of what had come flying out of his mouth.  Silence fell on the kitchen once more as John simply stared at Sherlock.  His face had gone completely smooth and blank, and John swore that he could see every barrier, every wall that Sherlock had ever dropped for him sliding right back up into place.  Locked and sealed.  

"Sherlock…" John began.

"You were the only one who never called me that," Sherlock said in a monotone voice, eyes looking past John.  He looked down at the mess on the floor once again.  "Everyone else, but never you," he continued as he dropped to his knees, preservative soaking into the fabric of his robe and pants.  John watched as Sherlock began to slowly scoop broken bits of glass and brain towards him, trying to pile it all up into one place.

"Sherlock, I didn’t mean it.  I really didn’t. I just had a bad day at the surgery and I—" Sherlock cut him off before he could continue.

"I’ll clean this up.  Don’t worry about it, Dr. Watson."  His tone was stiff and formal.  The voice he normally reserved for Anderson or Donovan.  Never for John.  The stiff utterance of his professional name was like a punch to the stomach, knocking all the air out of him.  He stepped back a couple paces, still watching Sherlock, whose clothes were surely ruined.  A small bit of blood ran with the clear preservative as the bits of glass cut into Sherlock’s hands as he scooped everything up as best he could.  

John turned and left the kitchen.  He couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Sherlock that could possibly fix what had been said.  And the site of the brilliant genius on his knees, hands bleeding and full of glass and brain was too much, too pitiful.  Every time someone had called Sherlock “freak” ran through John’s mind.  Sherlock’s stiff spine and flat expression, the empty tone he used with whoever had issued the insult.

He found himself in his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed, letting his face fall into his hands.  

"Oh god, what have I just done?"  He scrubbed his hands over his face, groaning long and deeply.  He couldn’t stop seeing Sherlock on the floor, cleaning up the mess that John had made.  That  _John_  had made.  He knew Sherlock had a habit of doing experiments in the kitchen, but he’d gone rushing in, ready to dispose of his rough day at the surgery.  He’d knocked into Sherlock and sent the little glass container flying, but he’d lost his temper and taken it out on Sherlock.  Sherlock who had let John in, who had decided to trust John, who had let down all of his walls.  Sherlock who was cleaning up John’s mess with a blank expression, hidden behind his barriers once again, surely cursing John for the betrayal.  

To some, freak was just a word, but to Sherlock… To Sherlock it was the worst thing John might have said.  

It was the thought of Sherlock’s bleeding hands, covered in brain and preservative that drove John back out into the main part of the flat.  Sherlock wouldn’t tend to his hands, he wouldn’t think to.  

He found Sherlock on the floor with a rag in his hand, mopping up the wetness on the floor.

"Sherlock," John said softly, receiving no reaction.  John shook his head and went to the bathroom, retrieving their first aid kit.  He strode back into the kitchen and set the kit down, opening it and extracting bandages and hydrogen peroxide and antibacterial cream.  

"Sherlock, come here. Your hands are bleeding, I need to clean them out,"  John said, a bit louder.  Still Sherlock ignored him, continuing to mop up the floor with the already sopping wet rag.  John sighed deeply and went to him, crouching down and grabbing hold of Sherlock’s wrists.  The contact finally brought the consulting detective’s eyes up from the floor.  His expression was hollow, was blank. 

"C’mon, up you get," John said, pulling Sherlock to his feet and leading him over to the counter.  Sherlock meekly complied as John turned his palms up towards the ceiling.  He examined the hands, frowning at the multitude of cuts, some of them quite deep.  He pursed his lips and slid a towel under Sherlock’s hands, preparing to clean them out.  As focused as he was on his work, he didn’t notice Sherlock watching his every move, still hiding behind his mask.  John spoke as he worked.

"Had this damn woman come in today who swore up and down that she was dying because she had a cough.  Wouldn’t listen to a thing I said. By the time I finally got her out, I was so riled up that I accidentally upset a pile of papers on my desk.  One after another, everything was going wrong,"  John said, dabbing away the preservative from Sherlock’s hands before taking out the peroxide.

"Careful this is going to sting," he warned as he poured a little across Sherlock’s pale palms.  "Then, trying to come home, couldn’t seem to catch a cab.  I was so damn irritated, I didn’t think about looking where I was going when I came into the flat."  Sherlock flinched at the burn as the peroxide began bubbling at his palms, cleaning out the wounds.  Silence fell as John cleaned out the wounds a few more times.

"I didn’t mean to run into you and upset your… your brain.  And I didn’t mean to get angry," John murmured as he gently patted Sherlock’s palms dry.  

"And I didn’t mean to say what I said.  Because you’re not a freak, Sherlock."  A small smear of antibacterial was run across both palms, covering all the wounds, small and large. 

"You’re absolutely brilliant.  You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.  Bloody fantastic, you are.  And even if you’re a bit odd, you more than make up for it by being stupidly brave.  You’re more human than anyone I’ve met, even if you don’t want to admit it."  The bandages came out and John slowly began wrapping both hands after applying gauze pads to the wounded palms.  He wrapped the white bandages around the white hands carefully and slowly, rough hands working with an almost unheard of delicacy.

"And you’re my best friend and I cannot express how absolutely sorry I am for calling you a freak.  You’re not a freak.  And anyone who says otherwise can take it up with me.  And I was Army, so I’d like to see them try.  Especially Donovan, the twat."  Hands bandaged, John was out of things to do, out of reasons to keep his eyes down.  Finally he looked up at Sherlock, who was still watching him.  His expression was more vulnerable before, the walls slowly lowering once more.  

"You… didn’t mean it?"  Sherlock asked in a voice that reminded John of a bullied child for a moment.  

"Never," John answered firmly and confidently.  The kitchen still smelled of preservative, and his best friends hands were all bandaged up, and John was still a little irate about his generally annoying day, but he stepped forward and hugged Sherlock.  The taller man froze momentarily out of surprise, blinking rapidly for a moment before carefully wrapping his arms around his shorter companion, careful of his bandaged hands.  

"You’re not a freak, Sherlock.  You never have been." 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at sammylied.tumblr.com and maybe send me prompts for future ficlets? Almost any pairing you can think of!


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